


Found. The Bruce-Partington plans. Please collect. The Milk Pool. Midnight.

by DHume



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-31
Updated: 2011-07-31
Packaged: 2017-10-22 00:50:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/231822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DHume/pseuds/DHume
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Taken from the hilarious 'Bakery Street' prompt, a Bakery Street take on the Great Game's climax. Technically two parts, but really a one-shot with an optional (weak, in my opinion) ending epilogue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Found. The Bruce-Partington plans. Please collect. The Milk Pool. Midnight.

**Author's Note:**

> This came to be from the Bakery Street crack premise we all know and love. Since I wrote this, I've been told that there was also a fill, but it was pointed out to me whilst LJ was down and I STILL haven't got the link to it. Any similarities, therefore, are entirely unintentional.

_"Sherloaf Holmes and John Wheatson of Bakery Street, Mycrust Holmes, Sherloaf's nemesis Jim Moritarty, and of course, Detective Inspector Lestrudel of Shortcake Yard."_

 _\--_

 __“You know, you can’t really be allowed to go on. You just _can’t_ ”.

  
The evil Moritarty circled Sherloaf and John, the light refracting off the milk swimming pool and painting the walls with shimmering milky light.  
Moritary continued.

  
“I’ll take your beloved Mr. Wheatson and do to his adorable little dairy-soluble self exactly what I did to Cookie Powers, Sherloaf. One dip in the pool, and John will be one limp biscuit, just like he was.”

  
For a second, a look of anguish flitted across Sherloaf’s features, but half a second later the look was gone, and his nose merely wrinkled with distaste.  He opened his mouth to answer Jim.

  
“Apart from being a crime against baking - not that you’d know, you open-topped travesty - I find that a wholely boring method of disposing of bodies. Fat molecule forensics has come on a long way since that day at the pool, Moritarty. You won’t get away with that modus operandi again.”

  
Moritarty merely shrugged his elegantly fitted shoulders and continued circling lazily as John tracked his progress around the room with his eyes. He looked resigned, Sherloaf noticed. In all his time serving in the tandoor wars, he must have grasped when a situation could only end in tears and spilt milk.

 

\--

Moritarty giggled.

“What, with those buffoons at Shortcake Yard? All bark and no bite, they are. Well, just one bite. Their dry regulations and frankly awful taste makes sure of that.” He stopped circling and affected a yawn.

“I’ve rather tired of talking to you and your pet, Sherloaf.  So… The original point still stands. It’s the end of the shelf life for you two!”

  
Sherloaf risked a glance at John and what he saw confirmed his fears. He thought back to the time he’d asked Doctor Wheatson to say what his last words would be… And lo and behold, the man was muttering them now almost under his breadth. “Please, Baker, don’t let me die.”

  
Sherloaf, however, was prone to no such histrionics. He merely closed his eyes and barely even flinched when he felt the cold steel bump against his temple, waiting for the shot that was sure to come...

“Stop right where you are.” The voice of Sherloaf’s brother, Mycrust, rang out. Even the now-curdled milk did nothing to dampen the acoustics, and Moritarty heard him at once. Sherloaf felt his grip on the the gun slack, and the metal skidded down toward his cheekbone, as if in defeat.

“I have snipers surrounding you, Moritarty. One wrong step and you’re toast. You can walk away from this, or we can do this the hard way, and I’ll turn up the heat.”  
Sherloaf silently congratulated his brother. Tarts were notorious for their hatred of heat and over dryness.

 

 

 

 _  
_


End file.
